Three Deaths, A Despot, and a Cup of Coffee
by Min Daae
Summary: Even despots have bad days. Jack is mouthy, the Master is in a Mood, and people die. It is all rather cracky and Tongue-in-Cheek.


"The next one who so much as looks at me is getting fed their own eyes," the Master pronounced, stalking into the control room with long strides and an expression that could only be called 'grumpy.'

"Bad day?" said Jack, who had evolved the dangerous coping mechanism of goading the Master at every opportunity. Of course, given the fact that he was already nailed to the wall, there was really very little he could lose.

The Master just barely glanced at him in disgust. "With a dull spoon," he added, and was rewarded for his efforts with a grin that tried to be cheeky. He wandered over and spun the Doctor's cage idly, then stopped it halfway through one circle.

"The thing is," he went on, "It ought to be a good day. A glorious day. Japan is still burning, all preparations are on schedule."

"PMS?" Jack suggested, and the Master didn't even glance around before saying "kill him," in a brusque and irritable tone of voice.

For the first time, even the sound of the freak choking on his own blood didn't cheer him up.

He leapt up the steps and picked up the cowbell, jingled it once, and set it back down. The noise set his teeth on edge. _Everything _set his teeth on edge. "Coffee," he said thoughtfully, and then yelled, "Your lord and Master requires coffee!"

There. Issuing orders, that was a bit more like it.

A sharp gasp alerted him to the fact that Jack was back. Again. "It would go better for you if you were silent," the Master said.

"Would it?"

"No. But it would help _me. _–ah, coffee," and brightening, the ruler of the earth paced over to pluck the mug from Francine Jones' tray and had a quick sip. Then spat it on the floor. "_Disgusting,_" he snapped, and dropped the mug on the floor. It shattered with violence. "Clean that up. And learn to make coffee. It's not that difficult. Stupid apes."

He didn't really feel any better for berating Martha Jones's mother, though. And then he realized that Mr. Harkness was humming 'Camptown Races' and his irritation spiked again. The Master snatched a spoon off the nearest table and held it up.

"Shut up."

"I'm not that bad, am I? Keep your eyes, you might want them later."

The Master felt more than heard himself growl. "One more word," he said, and the freak offered up one of those _stupidly _cheeky grins and then dropped his head down. Good. Maybe he could bleed to death quietly.

As if the man knew how to do anything quietly. At least he could see why the Doctor liked him. They both talked too much.

He went back up to the foredeck and looked out and down onto his Earth, hoping that the smoke and fire he would see would help at least a little.

It was cloudy.

"Why," he asked, peevishly, "Are there _clouds_ in the way of my _view?_" The Master turned to one of the guards and waved at him. "You there. How about it, answer the question?"

Stupid apes. This one stared at him with something akin to terror. He heard the Doctor's cage clink and didn't glance over. "I don't – I don't know, sir."

"Stupid answer. I hate stupid answers. You, pitch him out the cargo doors," he said to the guard next to the stupid one – who was probably also stupid, but at least hadn't _said _anything stupid – and promptly lost interest.

There was a great deal of screaming and protestations of loyalty, but the Master really didn't care. Maybe carving his own eyes out with a spoon wasn't such a bad idea. "I should not have gotten up today," he muttered.

"I would tend to agree with that," said Jack. There was strain in his voice, but not nearly enough. Maybe if he broke the freak's legs? Usually the idea of devising torments would have sent a thrill of anticipation through the Master, but he felt nothing. The idea simply…wasn't appealing.

Definitely a bad day. "Maybe I'll have the Toclafane kill half of the Eurasian continent," the Master said lazily. "That might help. Nice old decimation. Nothing beats a little decimation."

"Are you sure it's not PMS? I hear there's meds you can take for that."

The Master whirled and stalked to Jack, spoon in hand. Or started to. He stepped on a piece of china and it just _happened _to sink through the thinnest part of the sole of his shoe at just the perfect angle to stab into the bottom of his foot.

He yelled. He hissed. He hopped. And by the time he made it to the stairs to sit down, remove shoe and sock and piece of coffee cup, Mr. Harkness was roaring with laughter. The guards looked like they were just managing not to, but at least they were managing not to. The Master snarled and raised his laser screwdriver, shot the freak in the chest. Less satisfying than the eyes, but his foot _hurt _and his nice shoes had blood in them.

He threw one at Francine and it missed, skidded across the room. "I _told_ you to clean it up!" He yelled. It sounded like she was snickering, and the Master made a note to take it out on her husband. Later.

The Master, ruler of the earth and second to last Time Lord in the universe, looked at his bleeding foot and his single shoe and glared at nothing and everything. He took off the other shoe and stood up, and stalked carefully for the door. Barefoot.

He could feel the guards staring at him and could cheerfully have killed all of them, but that would have been pointless and he had a feeling he would regret it later if he did.

"I'm going back to bed," he said, fiercely. "Wake me and _die._"

He looked toward the cage where the shriveled Doctor was curled up with his hands wrapped around the bars, and narrowed his eyes. No one else would have been able to tell, but the Master always knew.

"Shut up," he said, and with that most excellent and witty repartee, he stepped out of the room and into the hallways, and began walking (limping) toward his rooms.

So today was not his day. But all the others would be.

"Sir! You're bleeding!"

"I _know,_" the Master said irritably, and after a moment, turned and shot the man in the chest with a blast of laser screwdriver.

This time it made him feel a little better. Maybe it was the carpet, the Master mused. Bodies made such a nice sound when they hit the carpet.

He hummed the first few bars of "Camptown Races," frowned at the dead body, and limped toward his room. That was quite enough of that. Maybe Lucy could get him some _real _coffee. And a back massage.

Yes, that _definitely _sounded nice.


End file.
